


Things We Miss Between Beats

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1930's, Alternate Universe, First Kiss, M/M, Romance, Swing Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-05
Packaged: 2017-11-06 23:52:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/424584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My very first foray into USUK--a 1930's AU, a little romance that takes a long time to understand when Alfred's too busy jumpin', jivin' and wondering why Arthur insists on being such a downer over at the bar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassafrass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassafrass/gifts).



The dance floor was jumping and he was getting warm under the collar, starched shirt wilting and wrinkling as he shifted and jived, the pretty dame spinning in and out of his arms pressing five hot little fingertips against his neck as he dipped her low and winked in time with the crash of a syncopated beat. It was probably conduct unbecoming, to be sliding his feet along smooth wood floors and holding the waist of another nameless lady, but it was Friday and the swing sounded so sweet after a long week that Alfred couldn’t be bothered to care. Sure, he’d been known to leave a trail of broken hearted gals in the wake of too many two-steps and his brother had told him that maybe he should settle down and stop raising so many hopes, but it just didn’t seem fair that a man couldn’t shake his cares away without having someone fall in love. Alfred was out to have a good time, to leave politics and power plays behind for a few blessed evening hours, to drink gin in the company of likeminded men and move a body that spent too much time crouched over a desk.  

He’d leave the worrying to Arthur and take another turn about the floor and let the girlies return the sunshine of his weekend grin while they made dancing look so good. The thought of Arthur and his frowning disapproval of Alfred’s generous smile had him turning his gaze to the bar, eyes skating down the familiar hunch of Arthur’s back, the tension in his shoulders practically shouting just how much he was enjoying their night on the town. As he mirrored the slow-slow-quick of dainty feet, Alfred wondered not for the first time why his friend always insisted on tagging along, when he never had much to do but slump over the bar and cast aspersions on Alfred’s considerable talents on the dance floor.

It wasn’t that he minded— he’d never been all that concerned with anything Arthur had to say when he was in his cups and making that expression of general annoyance, preferring to save his efforts for the times when Arthur’s brow really furrowed and he knew he’d actually stepped in the shit.  Alfred had just never quite been able to pin down why his pal would want to spend those first hours of freedom after a long week in oak paneled board rooms and smoking too many cigarettes sulking like a storm cloud. But, no matter how rationally Alfred tried to point this out or suggested that maybe Arthur should go catch at a flick at the nickel theater instead, Arthur always told him to shut his idiot mouth and leave him to his own devices, thank you very much.

It amused Alfred to hypothesize that maybe Arthur was so used to spending all of his time with dour diplomats and buttoned Brits that he just wasn’t capable of cracking a smile and taking a pretty girl with fast heels for a spin on the floor. Alfred was just glad that Washington hadn’t sapped the spirit of freedom from his bones just yet, no matter how hard the old mucks at the War Department might try to break a young man down. He still had enough youth and yearning for more, more, more in him to make the jitterbug look so fine.

“How about another go?” His flushed face partner asked as one song wound down and another cranked up.

“Sorry, baby. I’m feeling a little parched. You know how to make a man need a drink with moves that quick!” Alfred declined cheerfully, kissing the back of her hand and promising to find her another time on another dance floor where the music was even hotter, trying to wade through the wave of guilt brought forth in the crumbling of her expectant smile.

Though he was charmed by the way her red lipstick had smeared just a little, rendering her just imperfect enough to be really beautiful, Alfred couldn’t help but feel the pull of Arthur’s angry posture. Rolling up his sleeves all the way to the elbow just to rattle the Englishman’s cage of propriety, Alfred sauntered to the bar, draping a warm arm around a cranky set of shoulders and gleefully announcing his return.

“Buy a man a drink?” Alfred tried hopefully, laughing when Arthur shivered beneath the touch of his arm and favored him with an expression of absolute disgust.

“You are an uncouth barbarian,” Arthur grumbled, shrugging away from the Alfred’s sweaty friendliness, “And I know for a fact that you are perfectly capable of buying your own bloody drinks.”

Alfred smirked and leaned against the bar, pushing a hand through his mussed hair while he tried to get the barman’s attention. “Just because I can, doesn’t mean I should! Come on, don’t you want to say that you treated at least one person to something good on a Friday night?”

“No, you idiot. That doesn’t hold any particular appeal.” The irritated pinking of Arthur’s cheeks was almost as nice as the first touch of a cold glass between his fingers, making Alfred feel pretty alright up until the moment Arthur launched into his favorite topic. “I’ll leave the smiling and simpering to you. One of us ought to maintain a little dignity.”

Alfred’s eyes widened behind his glasses while liquor less bitter than Arthur’s scorn burned down his throat, forcing a spluttering cough as he struggled to defend his wounded honor, “Hey, now! No need to be so snappy just because I’ve been jiving with a few ladies tonight.”

“Seven,” Arthur said lowly, fingers tracing over the rim of his empty glass, tipping it back and forth, drawing Alfred’s curious gaze away from his companion’s troubles, “Seven ladies. While I can hardly vouch for American estimations, I doubt even you could qualify seven as _a few_.”

Sheepish but unashamed, Alfred shrugged and waved a hand towards the hustle and bustle on the floor, nudging Arthur’s shoulder. “A few. Seven. Seventeen. Why mind when we’re all here to have a good time and forget our worries?”

“Wouldn’t you rather have just one?” Arthur asked dryly, signaling the bartender for another drink, sneering as he gave an endearingly bad imitation Alfred’s accent, “Get yourself a best girl?”

Alfred chuckled and tipped his head to the side, peering at Arthur beneath his wire frames, wondering just how much his friend had had to drink to want to go tripping down the mostly barren path of Alfred’s romantic history. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the finer points of affection, but once the song was over, he’d never quite been interested enough to ask for another dance.  

“No thanks, my man. You should know by now that isn’t for me.”

“You are a cad and a bastard of the first degree,” Arthur muttered distastefully, though Alfred could feel some of the tension melt away in the rub of their shoulders.

Alfred laughed and slumped closer, relaxing into the familiar warmth of Arthur’s side, buzzing with liquor and the exhaustion earned from a hard working week as he watched the couples shimmy and slide on the dance floor. “What can I say? Is it so bad to want to be the reason a pretty girl smiles? Or to want to shake my blues away?”

“Yes,” Arthur spat, lips crinkling into that smirk that never boded well for Alfred’s ego, “What passes for dancing in this country ought to be classified as a crime. That you repeatedly commit this crime with innocent ladies too blinded by your idiot smile to know better is a sin. That I’m forced to watch this comedy of errors, well, it’s just unnecessary.”

Alfred clutched a hand to his chest, sighing dramatically, “No one’s forcing to you look, my good man! I can’t help that I’m so irresistible even you can’t keep your eyes off me!” He broke into peals of laughter at the sight of Arthur’s spluttering outrage, clapping his hand over Arthur’s shoulder, entirely undaunted by Arthur’s halfhearted attempts to bite his waggling fingers. “As a matter of fact, me thinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

Arthur stilled, gaze darting away from Alfred’s mirthful face for the blank comfort of the floor, “I have no idea what you are talking about. And please, leave off from abusing the words of Britain’s national treasure.”

“Whatever you say, Artie,” Alfred teased, feeling his skin prickle with anticipation as the band started up with a real hot tune, “But I gotta say you seem mighty jealous tonight!”

Arthur’s shoulder tensed beneath his fingers, a likely reaction to the use of a hated nickname, tickling Alfred’s immaturity so heartily he almost missed the sound of real upset in Arthur’s hissed response, “Why on earth would I have any reason to be jealous?”

Alfred swallowed his laughter, suddenly concerned by the taut bow of Arthur’s back and a brow furrowed so deep he could barely make out the green of Arthur’s eyes. He softened his hold, stroking his fingers once over the curve of an angry throat in an attempt to assuage feelings he’d once again managed to hurt. “Hey, I’m just kidding! Really, it’s no big deal if you don’t know how to dance.”

“Ah, yes. Dancing.” Arthur mumbled, cheeks staining a telltale red that made Alfred smile with relief as Arthur uncurled from his position of defensive hostility, stretching into the easiness of Alfred’s slouch.

Alfred winked at the girl eying him from across the room, holding up a finger to ask her for just a moment more so he could make his one good offer for the evening. He pushed away from the bar and away Arthur’s rumpled cling before turning back with inviting words from a happy mouth, “I could teach you, if you want. Show you how to jump and jive with the best of ‘em!”

Arthur’s face went as red and hot as the Fourth of July, his look of abject horror tinged with curiosity warming something wonderful and strange in Alfred’s chest.

“You are even more of an idiot than I thought. Go away immediately,” Arthur scoffed before hiding his flushed face and pretty frown by looking resolutely at anything but Alfred’s fond amusement.

With laughter in his heart and a swing in his step, Alfred took lady number 8’s hand and spun her onto the dance floor, feeling the prickle of someone’s eyes watching and watching as he realized with a start that Arthur didn’t say _no._


	2. Chapter 2

Though it was not Alfred’s default setting to agree with Arthur, there was no denying that it really was in fact “too bloody for hot for this nonsense,” only two songs into his attempt to get stiff British feet to shuffle in an American jive. Summer in Washington was a cruel mistress and try though he might, Alfred’s Dupont Circle apartment was still and thick with humidity, as merciless as hot dame with too many suitors. 

He’d been so tickled that Arthur, with his furrowed brow and stiff upper lip, had actually nodded curtly, flushed an angry red and accepted the teasing renewal of his offer of lessons that Alfred didn’t want to be the first to wilt in the stifling warmth. Of course, he hadn’t had much competition in the stamina department, considering Arthur had turned up on his doorstep in his regular workaday suit, right down to spit-shined shoes that were more suited for the echoing halls of the office than the clutter and swelter of his narrow floors. He’d smiled as widely as he flung the door open and spared no expense in haranguing his pal for being as proper as primrose. It had been as irresistible as a sweet rhythm on a Friday night to poke a cheek got as hot as the temperature and inform his surly, reluctant student that he looked like he was going a’calling on a sweetheart, laughing heartily when Arthur scowled, called him names and shoved a bottle of rye bourbon in his face. 

Any other man with half a lick of sense or self-preservation would have run for cover from the storm gathering in Arthur’s eyes, but Alfred was just self-aware enough to know he’d never had an ounce of either, figuring that his brother had won that particular game of craps. So, he’d breezed right over all Arthur’s spitting objections that the weather was all wrong for this kind of idiocy and insisted that they get right to work, because Alfred Jones was afraid of a little heat as he was of English ire. 

After all, he’d been pressing Kirkland’s buttons and challenging his assertions for months on end and managed to escape from each too tense and too serious meeting unscathed but for the ringing in his ears. After the first time he’d had his nose bitten off in a flurry of words that sounded familiar but tasted awfully different, Alfred had come to understand that Arthur was all bark and no bite, an awkward but earnest friendliness lurking just beneath the curve of a considerable frown. Besides, compared to the wheeling and dealing that had consequences that kept Alfred awake at night, sweating out the summer and thinking of Mattie’s place up North, poking a British bear with a stick wasn’t half bad. 

But for all his best efforts and his brightest smile, after only twenty minutes of lackluster shuffle, even Old Benny on the shortwave radio seemed too hot and exhausted to really give the lindy a go. There was sweat beading down his face and Arthur looked primed to swoon or suffocate beneath his coat and tie. Arthur seemed so miserable, like a scalded cat, Alfred felt he had no other choice but to relinquish the slick hand holding his and postpone American victory over English rhythm for another day. 

“You’re right,” Alfred said breathlessly, grinning as he wiped the sweat from his brow and let Arthur attempt to do a little catch and release move, “It is too hot for this.” 

Almost immediately, Arthur dropped his hold, sagging to rest his palms over his knees and glare smugly at Alfred’s sunny smile, “I’m always right, you berk. The sooner you realize this, the better.” 

Alfred shrugged and stretched his arms over his head, casting a dubious glance over Mr. Prim’s sartorial inclinations, muttering, “I’m not taking any lip from a man who thinks it is the  _right_ choice to wear a coat in this kind of weather.”

Alfred smirked at the sight of Arthur’s flush, entirely unperturbed on behalf of his fellow Americans when Arthur gritted out, “Just because I don’t choose to take on the appearance of a barbarian doesn’t mean I was wrong.” 

“Well, this barbarian thinks you look miserable,” Alfred teased, striding into the kitchen in search of water, “So, for goodness sake, take a British load off and relax a little! Its not like you got anyone here to impress.” 

Over the gurgle of water rushing from the tap, Alfred could barely make out Arthur’s grumbled response, “I suppose not.”

He wondered what he had said that had earned Arthur’s tone of disapproval and disappointment, the same rough and low honesty he saved for the most egregious instances of isolationism uttered in the meetings they shared, only to be distracted by the upsetting realization that the water he’d wanted to cool his throat was as tepid as bathwater. 

“Damn,” Alfred groaned, all too aware now of the way his undershirt stuck to his skin in the cloying heat of a July afternoon, “The water’s run all hot.” 

Even with his back turned, Alfred knew Arthur was making his favorite face—the one that said with far too much clarity just what kind of idiot he believed Alfred to be, and the scornful scoff only confirmed his suspicions.

“What do you expect on a day like today, idiot? Nothing is safe from this bloody heat,” Arthur grumbled tartly, shuffling over to join Alfred in the kitchen. The touch of his damp hand over his fingers, stemming the lukewarm flow of water without asking startled Alfred out his routine offense, trapping his retort between a too dry throat and too wet lips. 

Alfred swallowed and poured the remainder of the his water down the drain, watching it circle the sink while the sweet sounds of Big Band still echoed off his living room walls,  suddenly more thirsty than he’d been even after running ninety for the championship touchdown. He shook his head, wondering if maybe he’d danced just a little too hard and a little too long, forcing a smile into his voice as he asked, “So does His Majesty have any better ideas?”

“Naturally,” Arthur said coolly, though it was so warm in the space between their bodies that Alfred didn’t know how that was possible as he shifted away to lean against the counter and deflect Arthur’s sour smirk with a sweet grin. “We do what any gentleman does when it is too bloody hot for reason. Get blindingly drunk.” 

Alfred’s smile melted into a smirk, wetting his lips with an approving flick of his tongue and enjoying the flare of disapproval in Arthur’s gaze, chortling cheerfully, “Ah ha! So the Limeys do know how to have a good time!” He rolled right over Arthur’s incipient rage, pointing at the bourbon and winking, “Go get that bouquet you brought me and let’s get jazzy!” 

Even beneath the redness brought on by summer, Alfred could see the tinge of Arthur’s familiar flush of annoyance, a sweet thing in the salt-sweat slickness of the afternoon that warmed his chest even before the first sip of rye. 

~~

Hours later, the sun had dipped below the skyline of his forefathers and cooled the air just enough to leave the room sultry instead of stifling, a soft breeze trying valiantly to cut through too much humidity to flow through his wide open windows. Three quarters of the bottle were in Arthur now, fallen victim to his strange Anglo-Saxon tolerance, while Alfred endured the stain of just a few glasses on his cheeks and the woozy feeling of looseness in his mind. Somehow, during the course of lazy disagreements regarding Germany’s intentions and the superiority of baseball to other sports, Arthur had unwound enough to lose the coat, loosen the tie and discard shoes and socks.

There was something so strange and endearing about the sight of Arthur’s pale, knobby toes sliding idly over his floors as they sat in front of his window and blew cigarette smoke into the night air that Alfred couldn’t keep his silly eyes from drifting to Arthur’s bare feet. He wondered how they would have looked attempting a quick step or two, winding in and out of his own shuffle and slide. 

“Too bad I didn’t get a chance to show you more moves,” Alfred remarked lowly, smiling softly as he reached for his drink, craving more of that Kentucky burn, “I was kinda looking forward to your big debut with all the pretty gals once you’d gotten over your two left feet.” 

In the darkness, gazed illuminated only by the glow of street lights, Arthur stared at him. He stared so long Alfred began to wonder if he’d gotten lost in a haze of alcohol, only shake his head and sigh in that long-suffering way that always prickled under Alfred’s skin.

“I’ll have you know I am perfectly capable of dancing.”

Alfred laughed, tossing his head back against his chair, slumping under the weight of his amusement and the liquor in his veins, rebuffing such a ridiculous, baseless assertion. “Since when can a bar-warmer like you take a turn on the dance floor?” 

“I was taught at school,” Arthur murmured smug and low, voice coiling around Alfred’s rich amusement and squeezing as he taunted, “I’m well versed in all _proper_ dances. The waltz, the polka, etc, etc. I wasn’t half-bad, thank you very much.”

Alfred took of his glasses, closing his eyes and indulging in the fantasy of a teenaged Arthur taking his stiff-upper lip and trying to persuade some sweet English lady to do the Viennese. Without intent, his blurred vision drifted back to the way Arthur’s feet tapped along to the slower sounds of jazz humming from the radio, music gone soft and inviting in the night. 

“But can you jump and jive?” Alfred asked warmly, dragging his gaze from tip-tapping toes to the restlessness of Arthur’s face, carrying tension even now, when the hour was late and the alcohol was strong. 

Arthur scowled and waved him away with a regal hand, dismissing his friendly concerns with an amused denial, “A passing fad. A folly. I’m more interested in what which will stand the fickle test of time.” 

“Protesting too much again, Artie,” Alfred cooed, leaning forward to wink shamelessly, “Just because we couldn’t get it right today doesn’t mean I’m not still up for teaching you a thing or two. My generosity isn’t so short. You can always come back another time.” 

“Idiot,” Arthur breathed, turning his face towards the window, doubtless to hide his not so secret desires from Alfred’s laughing gaze, “As if I came here to admire your dubious dancing skills.” 

Alfred pushed his glasses on once more, blinking as Arthur’s worried, tense expression came back into focus, the look on his face as he stared towards the city entirely at odds with the the derision in his voice. He wondered how it was he always managed to step right in it with Arthur, why it was that Arthur seemed to hate the smile that everyone else loved, what it was about him that never seemed to put Arthur at ease.

“So,” Alfred hedged, standing to lean out of the window, thigh brushing against the sprawl of Arthur’s knees, “What did you come for?”

Arthur was quiet for so long Alfred began to suspect that maybe he’d surrendered to the bourbon but then there was the slight, soft touch of toes to the bones of his ankle and Alfred was forced to stop staring at DC’s skyline by night and meet Arthur’s gaze. It never failed to amaze him that someone who’d had so very much to drink could still look so damned awake and mocking and he had to wonder if Arthur squirreled away an endless supply of disdain beneath the furrow of his eyebrows, a stockpile of fond derision every ready to be unleashed on undeserving victims.

But in this moment, pinned beneath the weight of Arthur’s unimpressed and expectant stare and the still too sticky warmth of the night, Alfred thought that maybe this time he deserved it. Arthur’s feet were bare and the tension between them was as hot as the Lindy hop and somewhere between jazz and bourbon he thought he was probably supposed to catch Arthur’s point. For half-a-heart beat, Alfred thought he knew what he answer he wanted before he let such a crazy thing slip from his mind as easily the gals he swung-out every Friday night.

Alfred chanced a smile, hoping that the familiar curve of his sheepish grin would be enough to distract Arthur from the way their legs were almost pressed together and the lipstick colored flush creeping up his throat.  

“If you’re too dense to figure it out on your own, then now is certainly not the time for me to explain it to you,” Arthur said dryly, finally relieving Alfred of the burden of his amused disapproval when he tilted his head back and grumbled, “As slow on the uptake as your bloody government.”

Alfred laughed, thankful for the return of banter he knew as well as the quickstep, relieved over the sting of strange disappointment that the tension had snapped and all that was left between them was a quarter bottle of booze and the lonely wail of Gershwin on the radio. “Whatever you say, Artie. I’m still betting my good money on your two left feet.”

“Get up,” Arthur snapped as he vaulted from his chair, surprising Alfred with the sudden burst of vehement energy.

“I am up,” Alfred teased, splaying his hands on the window ledge and winking at Arthur as he spluttered and made an obscene gesture with two fingers.

“Then get over here, you prat,” Arthur said lowly, stretching his arms over his head so high that the wrinkled tails of his shirt pulled against skin that Alfred imagined was damp and warm to the touch, sticky and sweet just like the night. “I refuse to endure any more slings and arrows of outrageous accusation from an upstart American.”

“If I come over there are you going to pop me one?” Alfred asked laughingly, pushing away from the window to saunter towards his favorite tempest in a tea pot, thrilling a little to the renewed hum of energy in the room despite the lateness of the hour and the emptiness of the bottle. “Because I can’t have you ruining this pretty face.”

“True,” Arthur said with a nasty smirk of pleasure, “It is the one thing you have going for you.”

Alfred touched hand to his cheek and feigned a swoon as he circled Arthur, “Aww, Artie. I never knew you thought I was pretty.”

“Shut up, you great bloody fool,” Arthur hissed and Alfred wanted to know if his cheeks felt as hot as they looked, pink and soft and entirely at odds with the angry determination in his gaze. “Shut up and give me your hands.”

“Why?” Alfred murmured, even though his hands were already reaching for the slickness of Arthur’s grasp, body shuffling just a little too close for comfort with all the questions that still clung to his skin. “I’m gonna want those free if you’re planning to hit me.”

Arthur blinked twice, lips pursed so tightly Alfred could almost see the shape of an insult, only to exhale noisily and roll his eyes towards the heavens, muttering, “The only thing I’m planning, you dolt, is to prove to you once and for all that I have both a left foot and a right foot and I am more than capable of moving them in time to that noise you call music.”

It was Alfred’s turn to blink slowly. “You want to dance now?”

“I know you speak a bastardized version of English, so don’t pretend you don’t understand me.”

Alfred scowled and tried to jerk his hand away, mumbling, “Its one in the morning, Arthur.”

Arthur shrugged and pulled him sharply closer, tongue running over his teeth in that way he normally reserved for the fools who dared to ask stupid questions during his precious briefing sessions. “Poor Cinderella. I didn’t realize your dancing shoes turned into pumpkins at midnight.”

“Very funny, your majesty,” Alfred said rashly, as unable as ever to resist the taunt in Arthur’s eyes even though he knew this was a bad idea, that the he was still thinking thoughts too warm for a night so hot. But there wasn’t a challenge he knew how to turn down and so he moved his hand to Arthur’s waist and assumed the position. “My dancin’ shoes are always keen for a clambake, but I dunno how we’re gonna do this without tunes.”

“I think I’ve had enough bourbon to make do,” Arthur sneered, already moving between the parting of Alfred’s legs in a rhythm so out of time with the Reinhardt on the radio that it made Alfred smile, “Just use your imagination and we’ll muddle through somehow.”

Alfred laughed and tightened his hold on Arthur’s waist, closed his eyes for a moment and tap-tap-tapped his toes on the hardwood floors until he could hear jive instead of jazz, and started moving through the quickstep he’d always thought would make Arthur look slick. “Better keep up then, Artie. I’m about to make you dizzy.”

And to his surprise, Arthur did keep up as Alfred took them through the paces of the dance he knew so well he could have done it in his sleep, a sweet and easy little thing—the kind that the boys and girls fresh from the farm liked to try when they were still wet behind the ears. Those bare feet didn’t stumbled, didn’t skip, didn’t step on his toes and Arthur followed where Alfred led with a smirk on his face that was as pretty and sharp as a moll’s.

It was true that Arthur was still too stiff and Alfred could hear him counting beats under his breath and he’d probably never be able to improvise a Texas Tommy, but there wasn’t a single damned reason that Arthur couldn’t have been out on that dance floor with him, taking a girl for a twirl. He swung Arthur out and pushed him through an eight count cradle and wondered why he’d always clung to the bar with a frown on his face and why he’d sat in Alfred’s living room, sweating and scowling and letting Alfred believe he didn’t know how to dance.

The song in his head fizzled out with the last of his energy as Alfred slowed their steps to nothing more than a steady sway, both hands splayed on Arthur’s hips as though he could find the answers he thought maybe he already knew.

“And how does it feel to be proven so perfectly wrong?” Arthur asked him smugly, if breathlessly, a single bead of sweat rolling down the flush of his cheek. “Though I suppose you must be used to such a feeling by now?”

“I’m feeling a little confused, Artie,” Alfred murmured. He wondered why Arthur suddenly went very still until he looked down to find that his thumb had started stroking the Arthur’s waist, still moving in time with a song that no one else could hear. “If you’ve always been dance, then why have you been wasting your time warming the bar?”

“Because I don’t care for the abomination you call swing. I warm the bar because I don’t like it.” Arthur scoffed, smirk softening into something unfamiliar that made him thirsty for the whiskey he could smell on their breath. Wildly, he wondered if he’d still be able to taste the tang of it on Arthur’s tongue.

Alfred licked his lips and wished that his heart would stop beating so hard because they’d only danced for five minutes and it was just silly to be so winded from something so quick and easy. Arthur was staring at him again, staring at him liked he stared when they were by the window and before he knew that Arthur could jump and jive. But now they were standing even closer and Alfred could feel the weight of Arthur’s expectation and maybe a little of his own and the air was still thick and humid and just too damned much to ignore.

And though he knew Arthur would give him another out if he wanted it, Alfred cleared his throat and pressed a bit nearer so he could feel the swell of Arthur’s chest against his own, breathing in and out like it cost him. He closed his eyes and let the inevitable question loose, “So why go at all?”

“Perhaps I go because there is something else I like.”

Alfred swallowed and let Arthur’s soft spoken words echo in his ears until they were drowned by the hum from the radio that still played on while he tried to think over the rush of pleasure and the sting of surprise that wasn’t really surprising at all.

“And tonight? Why come here, if you already know to dance?” Alfred murmured, opening his eyes because he knew he should be at least as brave as Arthur when they were standing so close together he couldn’t tell whose heart was beating as fast as the jitter bug.

“I know it’s difficult for you, but don’t be stupid,” Arthur whispered and Alfred could feel the brush of his words against his cheek. He shivered, in spite of the heat that lingered in the night air, promising another scorching day of summer when the sun rose and shattered this strange stillness.

“I think you must like stupid.” Alfred smiled, a tiny thing that didn’t do any justice to the chaos of his thoughts, and experimented with how it felt to push his fingers beneath the hem of Arthur’s shirt to touch the softness of his skin. There was something so unexpected in the vulnerability of Arthur’s frown and the strength of his hips beneath his hands that Alfred suddenly understood how it felt to want another dance, to want to keep someone in his arms as long as the music played.

“Shut up,” Arthur muttered and the last thing Alfred saw before his eyes fluttered shut was the stain of pink on Arthur’s cheeks.  In the touch of his scowl to Alfred’s smile, he discovered that Arthur’s lips were soft, a little wet, and his tongue did taste like rye.

To his great pleasure, Alfred discovered that Arthur could also smile, sweetly and shyly and when no one could see it, and he counted himself damned lucky that he had the privilege of feeling it, of finding out another of Arthur’s hidden talents.

“Hey,” Alfred whispered when Arthur finally let him breathe again, “Do you think you’d ever wanna take a turn about the dance floor with yours truly?”

“Get swung about like one of your dames?” Arthur teased dryly, tongue still tracing the places that Alfred had kissed, places he was going to kiss again. “I rather think not. But,” he paused, chasing Alfred’s pout with a nip to his chin, “Maybe one day I’ll teach you how to waltz.”

“Sounds good to me,” Alfred said with a smile that made way for the smug press of Arthur’s lips, kissing him breathless once more.


End file.
